


Earned and Given

by Jikatabi



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Abuse of Authority, Anal Sex, Forced Orgasm, M/M, Non-Consensual Blow Jobs, Rape, Submission
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-16
Updated: 2017-07-16
Packaged: 2018-12-02 22:53:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11519190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jikatabi/pseuds/Jikatabi
Summary: Yakov has punishments for losers and rewards for winners.





	Earned and Given

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mornelithe_falconsbane](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mornelithe_falconsbane/gifts).



Victor Nikiforov was not used to losing, and so when he left the first competition of his senior debut with no medal to show for it, it burned him up. He spent every moment he had to himself after the competition, up until the plane landed back home, mentally going over everything that could have been done better. He hadn't slept properly beforehand. That one jump had been too shaky and he needed to practice it more. He'd been slightly out of sync with the music going into that step sequence and it had thrown him off.

Yakov must have been disappointed in him, too, because he hadn't told Victor to stop sulking once. Honestly, he almost would have preferred the yelling over the silent glances on the plane as Victor played with a strand of hair, winding it around his fingers and then combing it straight again, while he picked apart the lectures from the kiss-and-cry in his head for the fifth time.

Already, he was thinking of practice. He knew his body needed rest, but he wanted to be on the ice again already, or at least in the dance studio. Maybe he should ask Yakov about a new ballet instructor. This one wasn't nearly as good at teaching as Lilia had been, and though at Yakov's insistence he'd tried giving it time, it had been months already. He needed someone who would push him harder.

But it was already long dark outside by the time the plane landed in St Petersburg, and Victor was exhausted from spending more than half a day traveling, and there would be no time spent practicing tonight.

He managed not to doze on the ride back, though it was a near thing. He brightened up as they finally stepped into Yakov's apartment, because this was always his favorite part of returning home: dropping his suitcase and kneeling down, not having even removed his scarf, as Makkachin came barreling over to greet him.

"Did you miss me?" he cooed at her, making sure to give her ears an extra-good scratch. "I'm sorry, you did, didn't you? I missed you, too. Was the dog sitter nice? I bet you were a good dog for her, weren't you, you're such a good girl." He was yawning even as he chattered away, the tiredness catching back up to him.

"I'll take care of dinner," Yakov said. "Try and get some sleep before then."

When Makkachin finally tired of licking his face, he hauled his suitcase into his room and nudged it into a corner, too tired to even think about unpacking. Makkachin hopped up on the bed with him moments after he collapsed into it, and oh, he'd missed this while he was away, having her curl up with him. He fell asleep instantly with his hand in her fur.

Yakov came to wake him up a couple of hours later. There was food and tea on the table, and Victor felt much more awake as he sat down. The room was silent as they started to eat. It made him miss Lilia, who had always found something to talk about, ballet or music or the news that Victor never bothered reading. Not that it was usually this quiet nowadays.

He started when Yakov said his name, looked up and asked, "Yes?" automatically. Yakov had a serious look on his face – well, more serious than normal – and for a moment, Victor wondered if he was in for yet another lecture about his skating. He really didn't want to think about it, not until tomorrow when he could actually do something about it.

"Do you remember when I told you this summer how, as a senior skater, there will be new customs that you must participate in?"

"Yeah." Yakov had been vague about exactly what those _were_. Something about competitions? Victor had mostly forgotten already.

"After competitions," Yakov said, "losers are punished."

Victor paused in his attempt to spear a piece of broccoli with his fork. That didn't sound right. He looked up, and Yakov definitely wasn't joking. "Why?" he asked. "It's not like I need extra motivation."

"It's a skating tradition," Yakov said.

"I haven't heard about it before."

"A private tradition," Yakov amended. "One for coaches and their skaters. I'm not surprised you haven't heard it mentioned." Well, okay, that part made some sense. People probably didn't like talking about punishments. And Victor didn't exactly hang out with lots of senior skaters. He opened his mouth to ask if they really had to do this tonight, only for Yakov to go, " _Vitya_ ," in that 'stop arguing with me' tone of his, and he didn't feel up to an argument right now, so for once, he shut up. "Come to my room when you're done eating," Yakov said as he stood, taking his empty plate and mug with him.

Victor poked at his vegetables after Yakov had left. He didn't want a stupid punishment over a stupid competition that he was still stewing over. What was the _point_? Victor hated losing as much as anyone else in the sport did, and he hated not showing his best for the audience. Besides, punishments had never worked on him as a kid, and they probably weren't any more effective now.

Well, whatever. Yakov was going to insist on it, it seemed, so he might as well get it over with. As he finished clearing his plate, he wondered what it was going to be. Extra exercises, like Yakov made him and Georgi do if they got too distracted during practice? It was hard to imagine much else that made sense.

Dinner eaten, Victor dropped his plate in the sink and leaned against it for a minute longer to finish his lukewarm tea. There. Time to go find out whatever it was that Yakov wanted him to do. He walked down the hall and stopped in the doorway to yawn. Ugh, hopefully this wouldn't take too long if he was getting tired again already.

Yakov was sitting at his desk by the dark window, doing something with some papers. "Come in," he said, looking up at Victor and putting out the lamp on the desk. "Come sit on the bed."

There wasn't anywhere else to sit in the room besides the chair Yakov was getting out of, anyway. Victor closed the door behind him and hopped onto the covers, swinging his legs as he waited for Yakov to sit down beside him. Was he going to be sitting down for this? It wasn't going to be something embarrassing like a spanking, would it? He'd rather run the length of St Petersburg. No, wait, that would be too weird, Yakov wouldn't.

Yakov looked at him for a moment, then said, "Vitya, you're old enough and mature enough to accept this, aren't you?"

"Yes?" He wished Yakov would just tell him what punishment it was that he was supposed to be accepting.

"It might be uncomfortable," Yakov said, and he reached forward to pick up one of those annoying short strands of hair falling across Victor's forehead and smoothed it back down along his hairline. "But I won't hurt you. Do you understand?"

"Okay," Victor said slowly. This was getting weird. Seriously, what kind of punishment was this going to be, for Yakov to be talking like this, like he expected Victor to panic? And touching his hair – Yakov was one of the few people in the universe who didn't seem to be interested in touching Victor's hair. Lilia had liked it. Georgi asked to play with it once in a while. Random strangers would sometimes start trying to pet it without asking. But not Yakov. It felt nice, but also like he was trying to soothe him for some reason, and that only set him further on edge. "I know you wouldn't hurt me," he added. Another strange thing to say. Was it going to seem _that_ scary?

"Come a little further onto the bed," and Victor did so, turning to face Yakov and hitching his knees further up on the covers. "And give me one of your hands."

Victor held it out. Yakov took his wrist from underneath, touch light. What the heck? Victor stared at Yakov's hand on his wrist, and then looked up at him as Yakov touched his face again, his jaw this time.

He was about to ask if they were starting – _what_ they were starting – when Yakov tugged him forward and leaned in and kissed him.

Victor froze. Yakov took advantage of that, pushed him backward, pinned him down by the wrist, by his other shoulder. There were still lips on his. Victor felt like he couldn't breathe. This didn't make any sense. Why was Yakov – was this supposed to be the punishment? This was way too far! Yakov wouldn't ever do anything like this! What the _fuck_.

He started to struggle and managed to move his face away, to take a proper breath. "What are you _doing_?"

Yakov didn't answer; he kissed him again. When he couldn't get out from it, Victor balled his free hand into fist and slammed it into his shoulder, tried to kick, but Yakov weighed more than he did and it was hard to get any room. He kept it up, squirming, trying to shove him away, feeling dizzy. This couldn't be right. Yakov had always been nice to him even when he was yelling at him. He'd never tried to touch him like this before, never done _anything_ creepy before _ever_ , this wasn't like him, this couldn't be right.

Yakov caught his other wrist and raised himself up a little, enough to look down at Victor, who panted for breath. "I'm not going to hurt you," he said again. "This is a punishment, but I don't want to injure you, and there would be no point in—"

" _What is wrong with you?_ " Victor shrieked, pulling desperately to try and free his hand, trying to slip out from under Yakov. It wasn't working, he was too heavy, and Victor couldn't breathe. "I don't understand! Why are you doing this?"

"This is a tradition," Yakov said firmly. "Vitya, you have to go through with this. Stop panicking and—"

Victor couldn't hear the rest of what he said. He was panting so hard that his fingers were going numb. He pulled again at the hold on his wrists. Jerked his legs looking for a way out. This didn't make any sense but he could tell what Yakov was planning to do and he didn't want that. Didn't want Yakov who had persuaded his parents he had real talent and Yakov who had let him move in and Yakov who had held him aloft when he broke the world record last year and said he was proud and smiled at him, _that_ Yakov, to pin him down and—

He didn't know what did it, but either the adrenaline gave him strength or he managed to knock Yakov off-balance somehow, because he suddenly managed to wrench himself out of Yakov's grip. He dove across the covers, rolled onto the floor and onto his feet at once. Maybe if he got out of here, things would go back to making sense, or Yakov would snap out of it, or he could at least—

A hand skimmed his upper arm. Victor flailed away and lunged for the door. Tripped over his own feet in his panic and slammed his head into the frame instead. Ow, ow, _ow_. He stumbled sideways and fell, instinctively covering the part that hurt.

"Vitya!"

He looked up, saw Yakov reaching for him. Scrambled back into the corner. "Don't touch me!"

"I need to make sure you haven't hurt yourself."

Victor curled up further into the corner, hands pressed against the forming bruise on his forehead. And after checking his injury, then what? Would he pin him against the floor and do it right there?

Yakov stayed where he was, giving him that stern look like Victor was being stupid about wanting to skate on an injury or practicing too long into the night and overdoing it. Victor glared back. He tried to catch his breath – he didn't know what he would do if Yakov went to touch him again, but this rapid panting wasn't helping – but his lungs ignored him and kept it up.

It felt like several long, long minutes had passed by the time Yakov sighed, stepped between Victor and the door, and knelt down, reached for him. Victor curled up further, but there was no more corner to retreat into. He flinched as Yakov's fingers drew close to his face. "Don't."

"Vitya," and oh, Victor recognized that tone of voice. Soft. Authoritative but gentle. The one that Yakov used when someone had actually hurt themselves and was in a panic or tears from it. "I need to look at that. Let me."

It was so _normal_ , unlike a few minutes ago, that it left Victor bewildered. If Yakov was concerned about him, then he couldn't also want to hurt him. It didn't make any sense.

Yakov's hand touched his forehead, brushed his fingers away. Confused, Victor let him do so, let him touch the area that had smacked into the wood. "Ow," he said .

"Does it hurt?"

"A little."

Yakov checked him over, like he would have done at any other time, came to the conclusion that he was probably just fine, and for a moment Victor felt calm, until Yakov's fingers trailed from his forehead down to under his jaw. Victor flinched away, but Yakov followed; there was nowhere left to move into, to move away from him. "Stop it." He shoved at him, but didn't have enough leverage to make much room between them. "Yakov, _stop it_."

"You need to let me do this," Yakov said. "I know you've never listened to me before, but for once in your life, be obedient for a little while and stop making such a fuss. You're dragging this out longer than you have to, and now you've gone and injured yourself."

Victor swallowed and tried switching tactics. Let more of the fear creep onto his face. "Please don't," he whispered. "Anything else is fine, I'll do it. Please. Yakov, please." He bit his lip, peered up. His heart sank when Yakov's expression didn't change.

The hand on his jaw tightened, and Yakov leaned in, forced him into another kiss. His lips were gentle, at first, but the fingers holding Victor there were firm, and he couldn't turn his face away. He still couldn't help but struggle, but it didn't get him anywhere. Yakov's other hand caught his wrist again and pinned it; he pushed Victor down until he was halfway to lying on the floor, Yakov on top of him, unable to move away at all.

When the kiss finally ended, Victor turned his head away – for all the good it would do – and tried to rein in his gasping breath again. "I'm not going to hurt you," Yakov murmured, as though if he said it enough times Victor would start to believe him. Or rather, Victor wanted to believe him, that he wouldn't, but that still didn't mean that he wanted Yakov to be touching him like this, which was the important part. "This is what senior skaters do, all of them. You want to keep skating, don't you, Vitya?"

Victor snapped his head around, feeling like his heart had just stopped. Of course he – there was nothing in his life that he valued more than skating, except maybe for Makkachin. He didn't know what he would do if he couldn't skate anymore! He had nightmares about it sometimes. Surely Yakov wouldn't keep him off the ice just for refusing this. He was his best skater, what would be the point? Surely – but he didn't know what to think about Yakov right now.

And 'all of them'? Was he lying? He had to be lying. This sort of tradition didn't make any sense. He had to be making it up to get Victor to go along with him. He had to be.

But what if he wasn't? No wonder nobody would have mentioned it before. Victor wouldn't. And if that _was_ the case, then he couldn't just run off to another coach and keep skating like before.

He had to be making it up, didn't he?

Frozen, unsure what to think, he wasn't able to resist much when Yakov stood and brought him along, started to pull him toward the bed again. "Why?" he choked out, trying to dig his heels in, which didn't work well in bare feet.

Yakov made a hushing sound and pushed him to the covers, crawled back on top of him. Victor blinked at him and tried to make sense of what was going on. He was starting to get dizzy as he tried once more to break Yakov's grip on him, failed to do so.

"There you go," Yakov said, kissed him again. Victor lay still under him for a few moments, trying to calm himself down enough to get his thoughts straight again, to think of something other than a blur of _get away_ and _trapped_ and _why_ and _stop it_.

Then Yakov tried to pull his mouth open, sharp pressure on his jaw, and Victor jerked on instinct, _almost_ got a hand free for a few heartbeats. The weight on his arm redoubled as Yakov sat back and glared at him.

"Will I have to tie you up for this?" he asked.

Victor jerked again and shook his head in a frantic no. "Please don't."

"Then behave yourself."

Victor swallowed and thought about it for a brief moment. He didn't want to, but trying to beg him to stop hadn't worked and trying to run away hadn't worked and trying to fight him off hadn't worked. Maybe if he went for the eyes or something, and if Yakov was lying about this being a tradition and if Victor found another coach to take him on he wouldn't have to do this, maybe that would work, but he'd never been in a real fight, only the kind that used sharp words or shouting. He didn't want to hurt anyone.

Yakov slowly let his arms go, and Victor kept them where they were, heart beating fast in his chest. He tried to imagine kicking him in the dick or something, then running away and getting Makkachin and leaving. It was hard, even when Yakov's hands started to creep up under his shirt, pushing it up a bit at a time. Even as Yakov leaned down to force him into another kiss. Victor had never been inclined towards violence, and what Yakov was doing was wrong, but it wasn't like he was evil, was he? He'd always been so nice to him even when he'd been grouchy on the surface—

He wasn't sure what did it, maybe fingertips brushing too far up his ribcage, but something in him snapped and he couldn't lay still there any longer. He struggled again, didn't get as far as trying to aim for anything before Yakov had caught his hands. Victor babbled a string of "no," and "stop," and "please," as Yakov let out a harsh sigh and let go with one hand, turned to reach for something. Victor heard a drawer slamming open, and a moment later, he glimpsed rope out of the corner of his eye.

He tried to shove himself away, heels scrabbling, but he didn't get very far before Yakov was grabbing his wrists, crossing them over each other above his head, and tying them together. "You're going to hurt yourself further," he snapped as he threaded the rope through a slat in the headboard. "Vitya, you need to calm down and take this. We'd be halfway done already if you had—"

Victor choked on a sob as he frantically tried to free his wrists, but there was no way out. He blinked away tears as he stared up at Yakov. Victor was hardly every scared of anything – not of hurting himself on new jumps, not of getting lost in foreign cities, not of going out before a stadium full of people to perform – but for once, he felt terrified. This wasn't the Yakov he knew. This wasn't....

Yakov's lips thinned as he finished knotting the rope, before he slid back down on top of Victor. "Shhh," he went, rubbing a thumb along Victor's cheekbone, oddly gentle again. "Don't pull too much. Tell me if your hands start going numb. Do you understand?"

Victor closed his eyes and after a long moment, nodded, took a deep breath. Fighting hadn't worked. It was clear there was no way to stop this, now. Maybe if he just played along and let Yakov touch him and take what he wanted, then it would be over and he could figure out what to do afterward. He could pretend. The same way he pretended he was a fairy or a princess or a knight when he was on the ice and dancing to the music. He was very good at that. He just had to calm himself enough for it to work.

So he pretended that this was okay as Yakov kissed him again, as a hand slid back up his shirt, despite the nausea starting to form in his stomach. This was fine. The fingers running over the muscles of his stomach were fine. The lips pressing to his jaw, then his neck, they were fine. The way he could feel Yakov rubbing up against him, that was fine.

Yakov sighed above him, sounding more relaxed. Maybe relieved that Victor was acting calmer.

He twitched instinctively when a thumb traced one hipbone. He fought his panic, his instincts to keep it to that instead of kicking again. All he had to do was lay still until it was over. He repeated the sentiment to himself as the thumb rubbed up and down the crest of his hip. And again when Yakov started to undo his jeans.

He could feel his breath picking up uncontrollably again. Victor grit his teeth, turned his head to the side, and tried to think of something other than the feeling of fabric sliding down his legs and the sound of Yakov's breathing going harder for a much different reason. Anything else. Music? There was that song that Georgi had been playing over and over last week that had gotten stuck in his head even though he didn't even like it, some new thing put out by a famous girl band.

Victor had only just gotten it out of his head yesterday, but now he replayed it intentionally. How did the lyrics go? He could only remember the chorus. But the first part had gone like—

The notes stuttered in his mind as fingers touched his foot. It startled him so much that Victor couldn't help but open his eyes and look. What the hell? Yakov seemed to be looking at the bruises and blisters, not quite touching, but at least it was over in a few seconds, and his hand ran over the ball of his ankle, slowly up his calf, then hooked under his knee and tried to pull it out more.

It was very hard to let him do so. Victor's instincts were screaming at him to keep his legs clamped shut, and the muscles went stiff when he even thought about letting them open so he could get this over with.

Right, music. Victor squeezed his eyes shut and gave up on Georgi's earworm. There was this other song that he loved, he'd listened to it on repeat for hours. He had actually thought about using it for this season, even if he'd gone with other choices instead. Maybe next year. It was just so soft and pretty, and when he listened to it he could see sparkles and colors and the outline of a story.

He tried his best to concentrate on that rather than the touches on his legs and the rustle of fabric. Was that the sound of Yakov stroking his – no, pretty music – and hands on his thighs – the flute took over here – and there was weight shifting above him, the drawer sliding again – and then the piano came back.

The song was lovely, but this idea wasn't working. He could still hear the sound of a container opening, and it made his stomach jump. He was pretty sure of what that was. And then he just couldn't think of anything else when Yakov pushed one thigh to the side, nudged the other with the back of his hand to make more room, and slippery fingers touched him between his legs.

Victor bit his lip as one finger pressed in, bit harder as it got all the way inside. He pulled uselessly at his hands, squirming a little as he did so. He couldn't think of anything else but the feeling of the finger moving inside him and how he wanted to get away. Wasn't this supposed to feel good? It didn't, just uncomfortable. Though that was a bit of a relief at the same time; even his body wasn't enjoying this.

"You're too tense," Yakov said. "You need to relax or it will be painful."

Victor barely held back a burst of hysteric laughter at his words. Right, he was supposed to _relax_ when Yakov had tied him to a bed and was forcing him open. He might as well ask Victor to skate in bare feet.

The finger moved out, in. Yakov shifted so he was almost laying down on him, a bit to the side. "Vitya," he said, and that tone of voice, Victor hated to hear it like this. "You need to breathe properly. It will help you relax. In, hold, out," he said, like he was trying to coach him through something new. Victor turned his head away, but Yakov just moved his own closer. "Vitya. Do it. Unless you want to end up injured?"

If he was hurt, he probably wouldn't be able to skate or dance. Victor swallowed to try and get some moisture into his dry mouth. "You said you wouldn't harm me," he whispered, not looking at Yakov.

Yakov's other hand came up and gently turned his head. "I'll be careful," Yakov said, "but if you're tense, it will hurt. Now. In...."

Victor shut his eyes and breathed in. Breathed out when Yakov said to. Held his breath, feeling it tight in his lungs, in-between. It eased his pounding heart some, and it must have worked, because Yakov made a pleased sound. Then pushed another finger in. Victor found he was biting his lip again and made himself stop, breathed in, breathed out.

"There," said Yakov. He looked satisfied. Victor kind of hoped that meant he would be moving on soon, if only because it would be over afterward. The fingers inside him moved again – they felt so big. Yakov had large hands. Victor tried not to think about any other part of him as Yakov sat up and removed his fingers. He glanced up. "How are your hands?"

Right. Hands. The rope had been digging uncomfortably into his wrists for long enough that Victor had tuned it out. He flexed his fingers; they might have had less feeling in them than usual, but it was hard to tell. "I think they're fine."

Yakov shifted him a few centimeters up the bed anyway.

When he felt hands under his thighs, adjusting their position, Victor turned his head as far as he could into the pillow and tried to just breathe. In, out. He heard a slick noise, could feel Yakov shifting on the bed. A crinkling noise, was that a – hah, safety first, apparently, and his breathing pattern stuttered for a moment as he tried to keep in the strange laughter that tried to escape his throat again.

"Breathe," Yakov reminded him, wrapping a hand around his hip. Victor barely had time to do so before he was pushing himself in.

It hurt. Victor couldn't help but moan softly from the sudden pain. Yakov's dick was a lot bigger than the fingers, and it just kept going. Yakov descended on his parted lips as he paused, swallowing the sound. His tongue was thick and hot when it slid into Victor's mouth. And Victor liked making out, a lot – liked it when people shoved their tongues down his throat – but not like this. Maybe it would have been better if he could pretend this was someone he was attracted to, or at least some cute made-up person, but even his imagination wasn't that strong.

At least by the time Yakov drew away, what felt like a long time later, the pain had faded a bit. Not all the way, no, but Victor could bear it as Yakov started to thrust. Hands settled first on his hips, and then – after he flinched from the fingers digging into his skating bruises – right into the curve of his waist.

Yakov kept up a steady and somewhat slow pace. Victor tried to keep his breathing steady, partially as a distraction, partially in hopes that it would help keep this from hurting more. It kind of worked, on both counts, until Yakov thrust a little harder, or accidentally pressed into a bruise. Or leaned down to kiss him again, and when that happened, Victor let him turn his head and let his mouth open and let Yakov's tongue in.

It went on and on, the same pace, to the point where the initial horror of it started to wear a bit thin, and Victor got _bored_ , of all things. How long was this going to take? How long until Yakov finished and let him go, already?

He even slit his eyes open for a few moments, face turned back to the side, to see if there was a clock visible. Not that it would have helped that much, he just wanted _something_ to focus on, but nope, nothing there.

He wriggled his fingers. They were fine. Definitely going a little numb, but nothing to worry about yet.

Yakov made a soft noise and pulled him into another kiss, threading fingers through his hair to keep him in place. He started moving faster, too, _finally_.

It still lasted for a while – long enough that Victor had to pull his face away to catch his breath, since breathing through his nose wasn't enough, before Yakov tugged him back – but eventually, the hands on his waist gripped tighter, and Yakov pushed all the way in, and then Victor could feel him shuddering as he broke their kiss, panting against Victor's cheek.

It was over, it was over, the thought ran on a loop through Victor's head. They were done and then Yakov would untie him and then he could run off to Makkachin and try to make sense of what had happened.

Yakov eventually pulled out and moved away. Victor let his legs fall together again, rubbed his feet against each other as he waited, blinked his eyes open again. As soon as Yakov untied him, he started to move away, only to cry out in dismay as his hands were caught once more.

"I need to look at these," Yakov said, frowning down. Victor followed his gaze to the deep bruises the rope had left on his wrists.

"Let me get dressed first," he snapped, and to his surprise, Yakov let him go.

He pulled his shirt back down all the way and found his pants, pulled them on. He could feel Yakov's eyes on him, and he itched to leave, but he was supposed to be co-operating now, wasn't he? So he smoothed over his expression into something more blank and held out his hands when he was clothed again. Yakov ran his fingers over each one.

"You were pulling too hard," Yakov grumbled as he started to make little circles with his thumbs over the bruises and the backs of his hands. "Next time, if you're not going to accept it properly, at least don't hurt yourself. You also need to keep an eye on that blister," he added suddenly, reaching over to tap one foot. "It looks like it might be getting infected."

He was sitting on Yakov's bed, after Yakov had forced him to have sex with him, with bruises on his wrists from Yakov tying him up – and Yakov was warning him about a blister. It was so off from what was going on that it took Victor a few seconds to understand what he was saying. Back to the caring Yakov, even though he was still rubbing at the rope bruises. It made him feel dizzy.

He checked the blister anyway. He would have spotted it on his own. But still.

"Can I go?" he asked.

"As long as you can walk alright," Yakov said, letting his hands go, and Victor swung his legs off the bed and stood with no issue except that it still hurt. He moved for the door, trying not to bolt, as much as he wanted to, and trying not to limp despite the ache between his legs, and trying not to let his eyes off Yakov. It probably looked very odd, and he was keenly aware of Yakov watching him, but then there was the door and it wasn't locked and he could finally escape.

He went first to his room, where Makkachin was still sleeping on his bed, and closed the door firmly behind him. He knelt by her and shoved his face into her fur, wrapped his arms around her, gentle enough that she didn't seem to really wake up, only made those cute sleepy snuffling noises. He lay there with her for a long while, tensing at each little sound he heard, creaking and distant footsteps. But none of them were Yakov coming back for him again.

Eventually, he let her go, rolled off the bed, and went for his dresser for fresh clothes. He had spent most of the day on airplanes, and now Yakov had – anyway, he wanted a shower before he tried to get some sleep. Maybe a hot bath. Victor liked long, hot baths.

When he peeked out, all the lights were still off, and there wasn't any light coming from under Yakov's door. Victor stared at it for a moment, then turned and crept down to the bathroom.

He expected there to be marks, when he stripped off in front of the mirror. That was supposed to happen when someone forced someone, wasn't it? Bruises and bite marks. But aside from the bruises on his wrists from the rope, if Yakov had left anything, they weren't yet visible. No finger-shaped bruises overlapping those on his hips, no marks on his neck. It didn't even look like something had happened, except maybe Victor deciding that bondage sounded exciting. (And like he'd run into a door.)

Well. Yakov had promised not to hurt him. This time, Victor let the laughter out, leaning against the wall and muffling it with his hands until it faded away.

He pulled the elastic from his hair and started to comb it with his hands, mind whirling. What was he supposed to do now? Go to the police? Would they even believe him over Yakov, a well-known and well-respected coach? Or what if it really was some kind of skating tradition (it couldn't be, could it?), would that make it legal somehow? Or his parents, who he hadn't talked to for more than two minutes in months? They still seemed to think he was a troublesome, contrarian child. He had never been prone to outright lies, but they might think he was making it up. He didn't really want to tell them, anyway. He would rather dig up Lilia's number and call her about it, and he hadn't seen her in even longer.

He decided that he was too tired for a bath and started a shower instead. He washed his hair, first, and it looked like he would be sleeping on wet hair, ugh. The motions of it were familiar and soothing, at least, as was the feeling of the smooth strands sliding through his fingers. It didn't take up much of his thoughts, though.

If this punishment thing was a real tradition, though – and it was such a strange idea, but Yakov was always bluntly honest with him, had never lied, but Yakov had never forced himself on him before – then did it matter if he told anyone, or tried to get a new coach? Victor had once had another coach, as a kid, before Yakov showed up, and she hadn't been that good. And Yakov was excellent – he always pushed Victor the right amount, always made his rare praise feel worth it, always knew exactly what to do when something went awry, like the one time the wrong music had started playing when it was Georgi's turn to skate or the time their hotel had lost the reservation or the multiple times that they'd had problems with flights.

Victor didn't know if he could find another coach that was so good. And he'd been with Yakov for almost a decade now, and he didn't _want_ another coach. He just wanted the regular Yakov, the one he'd been up until tonight.

He sat down on the floor of the shower and leaned against the wall, letting the hot water flow over him. It felt nice.

So his options were: either Yakov had been telling the truth, and switching coaches wouldn't let him avoid this, only make things harder for him; or, he was lying, and Victor could either put up with this and keep his coach or go through a lot of hassle to avoid it and try not to screw up his training.

The longer he thought it over, the more his thoughts jumbled against each other, _what if what if what about_. He found himself rubbing at his wrists, and made himself stop, then sat up and made himself _stop_ , the same way he'd learned to brush off stage fright and pre-competition jitters.

He turned off the water and reached for a towel, mind blank and quiet for at least the moment.

When he had dressed, he looked at his reflection again. He looked fine. It didn't look like he was hurting, or still a little sick to his stomach, or anything like that. He turned the light off and went back to his room.

There was a lock on his door. Victor had never used it before, but when his hand brushed against it, he leaned back and thought about turning it. But Yakov had made it sound like it was just the one time. And he wanted everything to be normal again. So he let it go and went to curl up with Makkachin, who did wake up a bit this time and licked his face.

"Good girl," he whispered, giving her a nice scratch, curling into her warmth. "Good girl. Let me sleep, okay?"

Not that he was expecting to get to sleep so easily. But he must have been more tired than he thought, for it wasn't long before his eyes closed of their own accord.

He awoke by being shaken, and as soon as he looked up and saw Yakov leaning over him, his brain panicked. He tried to scramble away, but during the night, he'd gotten tangled in the covers, and he didn't get very far.

But Yakov was already turning away, toward Makkachin, who was prancing back and forth across the room in front of him. "Yes, yes, wait for him to come feed you," he told her, pausing to stroke her head anyway. "Vitya, get up already."

"I'm up," Victor said automatically. Yakov barely glanced at him again before he left.

Victor looked at his clock and saw the time. Oh. He'd forgotten to set his alarm. Yakov had just come to wake him up, like he always did when Victor slept in for whatever reason. He hadn't – it wasn't like last night.

Makkachin came over and placed her paws on his lap, looked up at him with her big eyes. She made a little whining sound. "Okay, I'm coming to give you breakfast," he told her, pulling himself from the mess that was his bed. He only paused to stretch – his shoulders were a bit stiff, and his wrists kind of hurt, and he still ached elsewhere, but for the most part he was fine. Really. Fine.

The shirt he'd slept in had long sleeves. Victor had bought it because he thought the way they covered half his hands was cute. He had a few others in different colors. He could wear long sleeves to practice until the bruises went away. Or maybe he didn't have to. He could try calling Lilia. She would know if what Yakov said was true.

He considered it, tugging at his sleeves. Makkachin waited for him. She needed him first. He followed her down to the kitchen and measured out her breakfast. She dove into it, happy as could be. Victor watched her for a few minutes, combing his hair. It was still somewhat damp, and had gotten tangled overnight from sleeping on it wet and loose, and after ten minutes of pulling apart knots, he was ready to just have breakfast and think about last night later.

Yakov acted normal at breakfast, where he talked about practice. Victor finally ventured another complaint about his new ballet teacher, and Yakov reacted just as he should: sighing, pinching his forehead, and saying he would look into it, before asking for something more specific than 'I don't like her'.

And it was like that for the next few days. He yelled at Victor in practice for screwing up his spins. He scolded him for feeding Makkachin table scraps but snuck a few pets in when he probably thought Victor wasn't looking. Aside from the usual brief touches to the shoulder, or a tap on the back to get Victor going again after being distracted by something on the street, he didn't touch him. Didn't say anything strange or creepy. Didn't bring the punishment up at all, even when Victor spent most of a day doing almost the opposite of what Yakov demanded, following the ideas in his head instead.

So it had been pretty awful, but it would only be a few nights a year, a few hours at most each time, and he would have the normal Yakov the rest of the time. And that was only if he lost. If he didn't, then no punishment. No weird Yakov pinning him down and touching him.

All Victor had to do was not lose, and everything would be fine.

\---

It was close – frustratingly close – but by a small margin, Victor took fourth instead of third. Victor grit his teeth and tried to outwardly be the good sportsman about it, but inside, alongside the part of him going _why did I lose what did I do wrong I shouldn't have changed that jump Yakov was right about that step sequence_ there was, for the first time, a hot dread.

It didn't let him sleep on the plane, and it kept him antsy the whole ride home, and it only abated for a while when Makkachin almost knocked him over in her eagerness to lick his face. It was impossible to be too unhappy when she was there, nosing at his luggage, following him around.

He made himself eat dinner, though vegetables had never been quite this unappealing. He had to eat properly or he couldn't skate properly.

Across the table, Yakov shifted. Victor didn't look up. He didn't let himself tense. "You remember what I said about—"

" _Yes,_ I remember," Victor snapped. At Yakov's look, he could hear Lilia in his head as though they were sitting at her table again, _that is not how we speak to people, Vitya. Do not lose your temper at others. Say it again, properly_. Though mostly she'd gone after him for being disrespectful, which didn't always stick.

But Yakov didn't scold him for his tone. "Then let's begin."

Fine. He'd already eaten everything but the tiny pieces, anyway. He let Yakov pull him out of the chair by the arm and followed him down the hall into his room. Victor closed the door behind them, and took an extra moment that he didn't need to in order to make sure it had latched properly.

Yakov sat on the bed, and when Victor didn't immediately approach, held out one hand. Victor reminded himself that this wouldn't take long and took a few steps forward, took his hand. Yakov tugged him in until he stood between his knees, then put a hand on his shoulder. It felt warm and heavy and trapping and it pressed him down.

Victor knelt. Breathed. He was co-operating. He was taking his (stupid, useless, awful—) punishment like a good skater.

It was obvious what he was meant to do from this position. It took a moment to convince his hands to move, but then he reached up, undid Yakov's belt and pants, and pulled him out.

The thing that made him pause was that Yakov was still mostly soft. Victor had never done this before. Was he supposed to touch it with his hands first, or put it in his mouth anyway? Well, presumably Yakov would tell him off if he did it wrong, so he started to stroke it to put the rest off for a few more seconds.

It wasn't that different from touching himself, really. Lightly at first, then more firmly, running his hand along the whole shaft, then pausing at the head. Yakov sure didn't seem to have any complaint, until at some point after he'd just gotten fully hard when he reached down and took Victor's hands in his, moved them away.

He put a hand on Victor's head, stroked slowly back along the hair, then pulled out his ponytail holder. Victor felt it all fall loose against his head, his neck, and Yakov offered him the elastic. Victor pulled it onto his wrist. There was that surreal feeling again. Yakov was making him give him a blow job and at the same time he was making sure he didn't lose his hairband, as though he didn't have a million of those in various states of newness laying around the apartment.

Yakov ran his fingers down his hair again until he grasped it right around the crown of his head and pulled him forward. Victor opened his mouth, let Yakov guide him closer to his cock.

He didn't shove it in Victor's mouth, though, stopped pulling when it was right in front of him. Was he supposed to take some kind of initiative here? Victor tentatively flicked his tongue out to touch the head, and the hand in his hair tightened for a second, but didn't pull him. That seemed like a good sign. So he licked it again, longer this time, and then with a bit more conviction, gradually working his way closer until the tip was nudging into his mouth.

That was when Yakov started to pull, urging him to take more and more. He hadn't been sure exactly what to expect, but it didn't taste that bad, mostly like skin. The feeling of it sliding over his tongue and deeper into his mouth was strange, though, and he didn't like it. And what exactly was he supposed to do with it? He wasn't supposed to use teeth, right? He tried to keep them out the way, although there wasn't exactly anywhere to put them. Some kind of direction as to if he was doing this right would have been appreciated, but he had to make do with assuming that Yakov not yelling at him meant he wasn't doing something wrong.

Yakov stopped when he was most of the way in and let out a deep breath. At least one of them was enjoying this. It actually wasn't as bad as Victor might have thought it would be; he could breathe okay, and Yakov wasn't yanking at his hair, and he hadn't gagged yet. As he compulsively swallowed around Yakov's cock, he thought maybe this would be better than last time.

After several moments, Yakov started to thrust, slow and almost lazy, and Victor let himself be tugged back and forth however he liked. Did his best to follow the directions Yakov eventually started giving him, to move his tongue and suck and keep his mouth open enough, but mostly he clutched at the sheets with his hands and tried not to think too much until this was over.

He could hear Yakov's breathing grow more rapid, and his fingers adjusted themselves in his hair to hold more tightly. On the next thrust, he pushed Victor even further down, and that was distinctly uncomfortable, how close it was to his throat. He tried to swallow again, only partially succeeded, and his jaw was already starting to hurt from being open for so long. He made a small noise of protest, but Yakov paid it no mind and made him take even more. Too much, too much; he gagged on it, his eyes watering, then harder the second time. He was able to pull back a little, a moment of reprieve, and Yakov's hand eased up and let him move – not all the way off, but enough to feel okay.

There was saliva dripping down his chin. Victor swallowed more fully this time and reached a hand up to wipe it off. And then he opened his mouth wider, moved again as Yakov directed him to. He heard a groan above him, and the legs hemming him in shifted. Apparently he was doing it right, and maybe that shouldn't have caused a weak, tiny flutter of pride somewhere. Victor liked being good at things. He liked it when Yakov made a pleased face after he did something well, like he was doing now, and Victor liked it when Yakov said – at least he wasn't saying anything right now.

Yakov let him go for a moment to comb his hands down the length of Victor's hair. It was – that felt nice. Like it always did when people played with his hair. It made him shiver. He could hear Yakov mumble something that sounded encouraging, though he couldn't make out the words. Maybe that meant he was getting close. Victor sucked a little harder at the thought, ready for this to be over.

Then Yakov caught the back of his head with a splayed hand, and Victor wasn't sure what did it – if it even something he did, the way he'd moved when he adjusted his knees or the little noise he made as he did so or something, or if it was all Yakov – but he suddenly found himself shoved down as Yakov thrust up, filling his entire mouth.

He was choking, he couldn't _breathe_ , too much in the way as his muscles convulsed in another gag. This time, Yakov didn't let him go, held him there, groaning above him. Victor tried to breathe in through his nose instead, but it wasn't enough, he needed more oxygen. He gagged again and scrabbled at the sheets with his hands, and Yakov still didn't let go.

He tried to wrest his head away, couldn't, remembered that he could move his hands and reached up to tear Yakov's grip away from his head. Freed, he sat back on his heels and leaned to the side, gasping and coughing. He could feel tears leaking from his eyes, and spit leaking from his mouth. Mostly he felt his lungs burning as he slumped and focused on breathing.

"Vitya," he heard, scolding, a hand back in his hair already.

"I'll," and he coughed, panting for air. "I'll keep...." He had to stop and swallow some saliva, and to cough again, but Yakov seemed to understand what he meant and gave him a few moments to recover his breath and wipe his face off. Not all the way – he was still breathing hard when Yakov urged him back up, the touch surprisingly gentle now – but at least he was no longer choking as Yakov's cock pressed into his mouth once more.

Yakov started to thrust into his mouth again, and maybe he was more careful, because he didn't go in so far that Victor gagged on it any more. Victor sure hoped that meant he was going to come soon, because the pain in his jaw was slowly going from minor annoyance to a real ache, and he was getting tired of being pulled back and forth, and it would be nice to breathe properly again.

It still took a long while, or so it seemed. At least it wasn't _boring_ this time, since he kind of had something to do besides keeping track of his breathing. But he almost welcomed it when Yakov held his head in place and bent further over him, hips jerking, when, a minute later, he heard a low groan and hot come filled his mouth. Yakov still had his eyes closed when he released Victor and sat back on the bed.

Victor reeled back slightly as soon as he was let go, a hand instinctively going to his mouth. He couldn't help but make a face at the taste. What was he supposed to do? Could he spit it out, or was that not allowed? Would Yakov make him do it again if it wasn't? He couldn't actually complain if Victor broke rules that had never been given to him.

He was about to spit into the edge of the covers when Yakov reached out and touched his cheek. Victor looked up and didn't know what to make of the intense look in his eyes. "Good," he said, curving his fingers over Victor's jaw. "Now swallow."

Victor did, again and again, first to get all the come down, then to try and get the taste out of his mouth. He could feel Yakov watching him even though he was looking down. Eventually, he stopped when it wasn't helping rid his mouth of the taste anymore, and his tongue was going dry. He coughed again; it still felt like something was stuck in his throat from when he'd been choking.

Yakov's hand slid up to his hair, and with a small tug, he let Victor lean his head against his leg and finish catching his breath. It was strangely comforting, considering the circumstances, to have Yakov's hand resting heavy on his head, not petting him or anything, just there. Even if it was weird, Victor turned his head further into Yakov's knee and focused on how it felt kind of nice, if he ignored everything else about the situation.

After a couple of minutes of sitting, he noticed his knees starting to ache from kneeling on the wooden floor for so long. And his jaw still hurt; he worked it a little bit in case that would help, but it didn't. It was very quiet in here now. Was he allowed to leave yet? He glanced upward, and after a moment, Yakov's hand fell from his head. "We're done for tonight," he said.

Victor nodded and stood, rubbing at his knees as he did so. He heard a rustling noise, the bed creaking, but he muttered a rough good-night and left without looking up again.

He rinsed his mouth out in the bathroom, then followed it by cupping water in his hands and drinking until the taste was only a memory. He looked in the mirror. Tried on a smile. He looked fine. Aside from a few aches that would be gone by morning, he _was_ fine.

It had been better this time, hadn't it? Aside from the part where he couldn't breathe. It had only been his mouth – for whatever reason, he couldn't figure out if this was supposed to be a different kind of punishment or if Yakov had just wanted something different tonight. And Yakov hadn't pinned him down, or left bruises that would linger for days and remind Victor of what had happened every time he saw them when changing or bathing or even rolling up his sleeves to wash something.

And it had felt like a long time, but it hadn't actually taken much of the evening. Now Yakov would go back to normal and everything would be like usual again. See, he could do this. He didn't need to call Lilia, or think about finding a new coach. He went through worse than this to stay on the ice when he was injured.

He combed his fingers through his hair, getting ready to braid it. It didn't feel like when Yakov had stroked it. It didn't feel nearly as nice as when Yakov had stroked it, and he shivered a little at the memory. He didn't want to think about that, how that small part had been good, so he pulled his hands out and started to braid. Maybe he could get Georgi to comb it tomorrow to help him forget about it. Oh, wait, Georgi had a new girlfriend, which meant that he wouldn't want to talk about anything interesting for the next month, just go on and on about how sweet she was and how kind she was and blah blah blah.

It wasn't that late, but he was tired. Time for bed. Maybe he could read a little until he fell asleep. When he looked in his room, though, Makkachin wasn't there, and so he had to go get her first. She turned out to be playing with a toy in some hidden corner, or at least chewing on it. "What do you have there?" he asked, crouching down to see. Makkachin happily shared with him, but she was still in a playful mood, and Victor could not resist starting to play with her.

He lost track of time. Even when she eventually got tired of playing tug-of-war, she decided that she needed more affection and knocked him over in a bid for better scratches, and who was he to deny her? Even when he was laughing too hard to move because of the way she kept poking her nose in his face.

His laughter abruptly cut off when he saw Yakov standing in the doorway. He felt his hands tighten in her fur, but Yakov only said, "It's getting late. Go to bed, Vitya."

"Okay," he said, and started wriggling his way out from under Makkachin. By the time he was free, Yakov had continued on to his own room. Right. He was the normal Yakov now. Victor rubbed one knee again and stood. "Come on, Makkachin. Bedtime."

She followed him to his room and let him snuggle up with her on the bed like he did every night. He sighed into her fur and closed his eyes. He couldn't taste anything. He was fine.

Next time, he wouldn't lose.

\---

Next time, he didn't lose. He came out of Nationals with a medal on his chest, and Yakov had still lectured him in the kiss-and-cry but not too much, and he'd praised him at the end and looked proud. It left Victor abuzz with the energy of a good skate, of a cheering crowd, of a pleased coach. He smiled, smiled, smiled through the pictures and interviews, and he couldn't seem to stop even when he was crashing to his bed in his hotel room.

As soon as they were home again, he rushed ahead with his suitcase and left Yakov behind. He left his suitcase by the door, barely waited to get his shoes off before he went looking for Makkachin, who turned out to be in the middle of a nap on the sofa. She was no less happy to see him, and listened eagerly as he told her about everything, took the medal out of his pocket and looped it around her neck just because.

"What are you doing, Vitya?" Yakov grumbled as he came in and saw what he was doing. "Take your coat off and put your things away."

"Take a picture?" Victor asked hopefully. Yakov sighed but dug out his camera from his bag and took a picture of him and Makkachin, then handed the camera over as he went off to do boring things like unpack. Victor looked through the photos Yakov had taken, Makkachin nosing against his shoulder as he clicked through and squinted at the little screen. They weren't the professional, polished photos of himself that he usually saw. But they were cute, and he liked them.

He did take his suitcase to his room, but he was in too good a mood to bother unpacking, and elected instead to take Makkachin on a long walk. By the time they came back, both having burned off some excess energy, dinner was already on the table, hot and inviting. Yakov talked while they ate, but Victor didn't really listen; he was too busy thinking more about his programs, and the things he still wanted to improve for next time, and how things were going better with his ballet instructor after Yakov had made him talk to her about some of his complaints, so maybe he would give her a few more months. He barely even noticed when Yakov took his cleared plate for him, lost in thought.

He did notice when Yakov tapped him on the shoulder. "What is it?" he asked, twisting around and looking up.

"Come here."

"Hm?" For a moment, he felt a thread of dread and distress, but it was gone the next moment; he hadn't lost this time, Yakov wasn't going to give him another punishment. So he followed Yakov and didn't think much of it until he realized that oh, they were going to his bedroom again. That didn't make sense, so he stopped. He only went there when he needed something from Yakov when it was late. There was no reason for Yakov to be taking him there.

Yakov gave him an impatient look and wrapped a hand around his arm. "Come on," he said, tugging.

Victor let himself be pulled along for another few steps, but no further; he could hear some very loud mental alarm bells, and he was wondering if he'd missed something. "Yakov, why are you – what are we doing?"

"Honestly," Yakov sighed. "It's in one ear and out the other with you." He fixed Victor with a look and said, "Winners get rewarded, Vitya, and you did very well, so—"

Victor yanked his arm away and took a step back. At the way Yakov's expression changed, he tried to cover it with a laugh that came out high and fake. "But I'm really tired, Yakov, it's late and Makkachin and I went on such a long walk, can't it wait until tomorrow?"

Apparently it couldn't, because Yakov closed the distance between them again, though he didn't grab for Victor's arm. "It's not going to hurt, Vitya," he said, sliding his hand around Victor's shoulder instead. "It will feel good. There's no reason to refuse."

Victor stumbled forward as Yakov urged him, then stopped. What he should do, probably, was agree and go along and try to turn his brain off for an hour. What he said was, "No."

" _Vitya_."

"Please." He gave Yakov his best wide-eyed look. "Please don't make me. There's no point in a reward I don't want, is there? Yakov. Please."

He saw Yakov's mouth thin as he stared at him, and he couldn't read that expression, hoped for just a moment—

And then Yakov shoved him toward the door, muttering about contrary students. Oh, well, it had been worth a shot. Maybe if he played nice for the rest of this, it wouldn't take as long.

So he sat on the bed without being told, though he couldn't bring himself to look up at Yakov as he shut the door and sat beside him. He let Yakov touch his face and slide fingers into his hair and tip his head back. "Will you co-operate today?" Yakov murmured. "Or will I have to tie you up again?"

Victor shook his head. He could do this. He closed his eyes to make it easier, and prepared himself for a kiss, to be pushed over again like that first time.

But Yakov didn't kiss him. He slowly moved his hand across Victor's head, then down the length of his hair. And again, and again, sending involuntary shivers down his spine and pleasant tingles across his scalp. He could feel blood rushing to his cheeks.

This wasn't – this wasn't a sex thing. Even his parents had done this to smooth it down before taking pictures, or to help him feel better when he was sick. Not to mention half his classmates when he'd started to grow it out. Victor was confused. This was just petting his hair. Weren't they supposed to be having sex? This couldn't be it.

"I told you that you would like it," said Yakov, sounding amused. Victor blinked his eyes open, and didn't have time to close them again before Yakov's hand left his hair and he leaned in for a kiss. It was gentle and short, as was the next one. They gradually got longer and harder as Yakov started to lean him backward, and he went without any fuss, eyes squeezed shut.

The kisses weren't so bad. They just felt like kisses. It could have been anyone pressing them to his cheek.

When a tongue probed at his lips, Victor kept them closed for a moment before he forced his jaw to unclench and opened his mouth. Yakov's tongue slid over his slowly, and the weight above him shifted. Victor could feel his shoulders starting to twist, the muscles of his back and legs tensing, and he tried to keep himself still no matter how he wanted to shove. He wasn't able to do anything other than lie there, and at first, Yakov didn't seem to mind too much.

When he pulled back, though, he said, "Relax. You're so tense." And slid a hand around the place where his neck became his shoulder and started to rub it. Took one of Victor's hands and wrapped it over his own shoulder. Victor looked at it and felt vaguely sick. His arm was stiff, and his wrist felt like it was at an awkward angle, but he couldn't figure out which angle would felt better.

Yakov started to kiss him again, started pushing a leg between his, started to move his hand from Victor's shoulder to his chest. It was like one of the threads holding him stiff broke, and he tried to wriggle away. When that didn't work – when Yakov tried to still him – his leg kicked almost of its own volition. It wasn't that hard, really, but perhaps out of surprise it got Yakov off him long enough to move to the corner of the bed and curl up there, since there was nowhere else to go.

Stupid. All he had to do was lie there for an hour. Now Yakov was frowning at him. He went for the drawer again. Pulled out the rope.

He could feel himself trembling. He didn't want Yakov to make him do this _and_ make him like it. "Shhh," Yakov went, approaching him slowly. "You need to let yourself enjoy it," he said. Touched Victor's shoulder, which only made him curl up further. "Give me your hands."

He shook his head, wordless.

"Give me your hands," Yakov snapped, and Victor flinched. He half expected Yakov to start pulling on his arms next, but he didn't, and he half expected Yakov to act weirdly gentle again and start kissing his head or something, petting his hair, but he didn't. Instead, he simply sat there, hand on his shoulder, expectant look on his face. Sometimes running his thumb back and forth on Victor's shirt. That was it.

There wasn't anywhere to go. No way to get out of here. He was making this last longer than it had to. Fine. Yakov wanted to tie him up to keep him from fighting back or to remind him that he had no other choice or whatever. Fine. He could do that.

He let out a breath. His hands didn't shake when he pulled them out. Yakov caught them and rubbed at the wrists for a moment before he crossed one over the other and tied them together. He helped ease them back above his head, helped Victor lie back on the covers, kept him from banging his head on the headboard.

"Settle down," he said.

As Yakov leaned down for another kiss, Victor tried. Tried to will his heart to calm, kept control of his breathing. It sort of worked. He didn't feel himself panicking again.

Yakov pressed surprisingly soft kisses to his neck, which felt a little weird, but also kind of nice, which also made Victor feel weird. So did the sensation of Yakov sucking at the skin on the base of his neck, right next to the collar of his t-shirt. He wanted to wriggle away from it, but he was calm and he was co-operating and he turned his head away instead, like he was trying to encourage him. Mostly it was so he didn't have to look for a few minutes.

He could feel a hand on his hip, another moving to rest on his waist under his shirt, large and hot. Then Yakov sat back and shoved his shirt all the way up his chest until it wouldn't go any further. It bunched uncomfortably somewhere on his back, and oddly enough, he almost felt more exposed than if Yakov had told him to take it off before tying him up.

"Vitya," and there was a hand on his cheek, trying to turn it. Victor let him, expecting another kiss. But instead the hand went to his chest, touched his sternum and moved slowly to the side, and Victor's body was tensing up again.

The anticipation made it worse. Physically, it felt _good_ when Yakov's fingers rubbed against one nipple, so much so that Victor gasped and arched into the touch before he could stop it. "Relax," Yakov said, and he didn't stop touching.

Right. This was supposed to be a reward. Which meant he was supposed to like it this time. Maybe Yakov was right and he should just try to enjoy it, or at least the physical part of it.

He still tried to squirm away from the touch on instinct, even knowing that it was useless. Yakov's hands followed him, drawing out more reactions from his stupid brain. He could feel his cheeks burning.

Yakov continued to tease him, until Victor was making little involuntary noises that didn't sound quite like his own voice. He was starting to get hard from this. Just how how was this 'reward' thing going to go? Was Yakov going to keep touching him until he got off, was he going to fuck him and also make him get off, or....

His jumbled thoughts were interrupted by one hand moving to cup his waist, the thumb rubbing at the skin of his stomach for a few moments. The other followed more slowly. And then Yakov's hands were on his belt, and then undoing his jeans, and then pulling everything off. Victor stared at the ceiling as though that would make any difference. It didn't help. He was still keenly aware of the fingers, gentle, on the inside of his knee, nudging his legs open so Yakov could sit between them. His body tensed, ready for—

Yakov's hand wrapped around his dick and stroked. Victor had his mouth clamped shut, but a kind of whimper escaped from his throat anyway as his hips moved into the touch. He tried to stop them from doing it again when Yakov's hand slid back down, but it didn't work. Why couldn't he just – this was so frustrating, he had perfect control over his body in everything else, when he did his jumps, when he was practicing at the barre, why was _this_ different?

He closed his eyes and found himself being kissed again. He let his mouth open, and – if he couldn't make himself enjoy it, at least he could pretend, right? That would make Yakov happy. Maybe it would help. He could do it, he just had to put his mind to it. So he let the little 'ahs' escape, responded a bit to the kiss, let his body do what it would.

"Good, Vitya," Yakov said when he withdrew, a hand sliding down Victor's jaw. There it was again, that urge to smile at the praise even as something twisted unhappily in his stomach. Yakov was stroking faster now. It wasn't fair that it felt this good. And then he drew his touch back until it was almost gone, light and teasing. "Do you still want to stop?" Yakov asked.

It wasn't like he was going to, but Victor said, "Yes," anyway on principle. Being left almost on the edge like this would suck, but not as much as the continued touching that he couldn't ignore. And there was always a cold shower or jerking off in his room or something if simply getting out of here didn't make his body see sense.

Yakov shook his head. He didn't look upset or anything at least. Maybe he thought Victor was just being contrary for the sake of it, like he occasionally was.

Yakov shifted above him and his touch withdrew entirely as he reached over to the side. What was he – oh. Victor watched him pour lubricant over his fingers and rub them together. Looked away as Yakov's hand moved between his legs. It felt uncomfortable when Yakov pressed a finger in, like it had last time, and it was moving, too—

His entire body jerked as the finger moved over that bit that felt _really good,_ oh, was this what it was supposed to be like? Yakov touched it again, and Victor found himself with one leg halfway to wrapping itself over Yakov's hip without even realizing it. And the finger kept moving. It left Victor dizzy.

He added another finger, and now he was stroking him again, too, and his hips didn't seem to know which direction to move in, so they kept shifting on their own. Victor bit his lip for a moment, but then he let it go because he needed to breathe. _Relax_ , Yakov had said before, and it was a lot easier this time. He tried to just not think, the same way his mind sometimes left his body when he was on the ice. Breathe in, cant his hips down, no pulling on his wrists, breathe out.

It really wasn't that long before all the stimulation was too much and he came all over his stomach. The afterglow left him feeling blank and listless, thoughts gone, barely aware of the pain in his wrists from jerking on them when he came or the sensation of the fingers leaving him. After a few moments, there was a hand stroking his hair. Victor turned his head into it. He was tired. Were they done yet? Could he go back to his room and collapse into bed already?

Apparently not, because after a minute or two, Yakov started to adjust his thighs, pulling him closer to his lap, pushing his knees up to his shoulders. Victor still didn't think he could move; he let him do what he wanted. So Yakov was also going to fuck him after all. He didn't see how that made sense as a reward but whatever, none of this had made sense in the first place.

The bonelessness had started to wear off by the time Yakov was finally satisfied with the way he was almost folded in half and started to push in. It didn't hurt this time, not at all. So he'd been right about the relaxing thing after all. Yakov still felt huge inside him, too hot, but he hit that good spot when he pulled out and thrust back in. Victor let out a low moan and dropped his head to the side, feeling dazed.

He was too drained to really do anything other than go along with it. He closed his eyes and was happy that thought finally started to slip from his head as Yakov started to find a rhythm. There were noises coming from his throat and he couldn't be bothered to try and stop them, mostly light groans from the undeniably pleasurable slide of Yakov's cock inside of him. Why did it have to feel so nice, he was getting hard again....

Yakov slid a hand around his head, and it took an amazingly long time for Victor to process that he wanted a kiss. He turned his face and allowed it, though the kisses were shorter and softer than before, and he soon let Victor turn his face back. Yakov's breathing was different, too, and Victor found himself listening to how it slowly grew deeper as time went on.

He adjusted his knee on Yakov's shoulder when it started to slip. Arched his back when a particularly hard thrust felt especially good. It really did feel like he was enjoying this. Was he? He didn't want to be. Could he want it if he didn't want to want it? He turned his head enough to rub his face into his shoulder and quieted the thought. He only had to wait a while longer.

It could have continued for five minutes or half an hour, as far as Victor could tell, unable to do more to track time than vaguely hoping it would be over soon. But at some point, Yakov's movements changed, became shorter and shallower, and so did his breathing, and his fingers tightened on Victor's waist. Victor managed to spare a thought for _finally_ before Yakov started to thrust erratically and groaned into his shoulder.

They were done, right? As soon as Yakov recovered and untied him. He was still hard, but honestly, he would much rather drop into bed than take care of it. Or maybe drop into bed, take care of it as quickly as possible, and then fall asleep right there.

When Yakov finally withdrew, he helped Victor slowly ease his legs down and rubbed a thumb above each hipbone in a way that didn't do anything for the stiffness, but did feel surprisingly nice. Victor kept his eyes closed – he was sleepy enough that they felt more comfortable like that anyway – and stretched his legs out as much as he could. Now he just needed—

A hand descended on his dick, making him jump. Oh. That sort of made sense with the whole 'reward' thing, didn't it. Or maybe he was getting too tired to think.

So he didn't think. He let his hips roll up into Yakov's grip, again and again, whimpered when it left him for a few teasing moments, until he was coming on his stomach a second time.

It left him absolutely exhausted. He almost thought he might fall asleep right there, but he tried not to. Yakov finally, _finally_ untied his hands and brought them down to rest on the pillow, swiped a thumb over his wrists as Victor sleepily rolled his shoulders. He was too tired to move again quite yet, so he lay there as Yakov left and came back soon after with a warm washcloth to clean him, didn't protest its touch.

When he was done, Yakov pulled his head halfway into his lap, stroked his hair once. Victor was past the point of caring about the weirdness of it; he turned his head in silent encouragement to do it again, which he did before picking up one hand.

"The bruises aren't as deep this time." It was said approvingly. "Perhaps next time you won't need me to tie you." A pause. "Unless you prefer getting tied up for a reward."

Victor found enough energy to shake his head several times. Yakov went silent above him and massaged his wrists, first one and then the other, and it gave him a little time to come back to his senses and wake up some.

"Can you sit up?" Yakov asked after dropping his hand, and it turned out that he could, though he still felt very tired and a bit dizzy. He tugged his shirt down, took the rest of his clothes when Yakov offered them and pulled them on slowly. "Make sure to drink some water before you go to sleep."

"Are we done, then?"

A hand settled on the back of his neck, and for a moment Victor thought he was about to pulled into another kiss. But Yakov didn't; instead, he just said, "You did well this time. It was an improvement." Even this tired, Victor could hear the implication: improve more for next time. He could do that. Sure. As long as he could leave now. "Can you walk?"

"I think so." He slid from the covers to his feet, wobbled, found his balance. At least it didn't hurt this time, though he felt stiff in a few places. Standing up, he felt marginally more awake.

Yakov followed him to the door, a hand hovering near his shoulder like he was about to collapse – he didn't feel _that_ badly off – but thankfully no further. Just said, "Good night, Vitya," and closed the door.

He went to get a glass of water (he _was_ thirsty). Went to find Makkachin and take her back to his room. Collapsed into bed with her curled at his feet. Muzzily remembered to set his alarm before turning back into his pillow and falling asleep.

He had to drag himself out of bed when it went off in the morning, and he was still half-asleep as he combed his hair in front of the mirror. He looked like he'd been up half the night. The thing with Yakov hadn't taken that long, had it? It had felt like forever, but it couldn't have been.

He pushed his long sleeves up and checked his wrists after pulling his hair back. Yakov had been right about the bruises; they were lighter this time, already fading. He stared at them for a few moments, feeling a little off-balance. So it wasn't just... he couldn't avoid it by winning.

Maybe Yakov was right and he could learn to actually enjoy it. Or at least put up with it better for a few nights a year. Which sounded unnatural, but then, it wasn't supposed to be natural for humans to strap blades to their feet to go out on the ice and do giant jumps, and that was the thing that made Victor feel freer than anything, so. How hard could it be?

Besides, he was starting to think that maybe this was a real tradition after all. He knew skaters who wore lucky charms, bracelets or necklaces, as though a piece of jewelry was going to help them win, and that made about as much sense. And Yakov wouldn't do anything to hurt them on purpose, would he? Just last week Victor had walked in on the tail end of his lecturing Georgi about almost giving himself an injury doing something-or-other, and he'd always yelled at Victor for doing too-hard jumps when he was younger.

...he was too tired to think about this anymore. He looked at Makkachin, waiting patiently by the door, her tongue lolling out of her mouth, and went to give her breakfast. He had to stifle more than one yawn through his own meal, though at least by the end he felt actually awake and had some caffeine in his system. He felt even better after taking Makkachin on her morning walk, and by the time he got to the rink, he felt fine.

And Yakov was back to the normal Yakov. He yelled at them some and lectured them more, and helped iron out mistakes they didn't realize they were making, and he didn't touch Victor at all except to wake him up when he fell asleep on the couch that night. So that was fine, too.

The next time Victor came back with a new medal, he did a better job at pretending. Went quietly along to Yakov's room. Climbed into his lap when he gestured him over. Let Yakov kiss him, touch him, strip him, fuck him. Didn't protest. Didn't complain, much. Didn't fight. Went back to his bedroom without any new bruises. Buried his face in Makkachin's back and squeezed her until she whined at him, reminded himself that it really hadn't been that bad. It didn't even hurt. Everything would be normal again tomorrow. He could live with this. 


End file.
